


Hollow Sky

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Series: Song Prompt Fics [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 04:12:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10428828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: Then and now.For the song prompt "The Passenger" by Iggy Pop.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [Baby's Big 50 Writing Challenge](http://butiaintgonnaloveem.tumblr.com/post/155638396048/babys-big-50-writing-challenge) over on tumblr. Lyrics are in italics.

_Oh the passenger_  
_He rides and he rides_  
_He looks through his window_  
_What does he see?_  
_He sees the sided hollow sky_  
_He see the stars come out tonight_  
_He sees the city’s ripped backsides_  
_He sees the winding ocean drive_  
_And everything was made for you and me_  
_All of it was made for you and me  
_ _‘Cause it just belongs to you and me_

The black leather of the backseat is hot, sticky against the bare skin of his lower back, where his shirt hiked up a little in sleep. He must have been asleep for a while—when he got too tired to read any more and stretched out across the seat, it was still bright and balmy afternoon, and now it’s dark, pitch black all around him, except for the dim glow of the dash lights. He must’ve slept through a stop, too, because he can tell Dean’s driving now.

Sam sits up and stretches the best he can—he’s getting a little too big to be sleeping back here, pretty soon his legs will be practically out the window—but it’s not so bad. Sometimes it’s even more comfortable than the beds in the cheaper motels they stay in. He cranes his neck back to look out the window, up at the sky, wondering vaguely where they are, what sky he’s looking at. They left Indiana early that morning—Sam was pissed at Dad because he missed the last day of school, but his anger’s faded now (he probably only missed a bunch of lame ass movies anyway)—heading toward some voodoo thing in Louisiana, and he can tell by the thick, humid air rushing in the window, fluttering through his hair, that they’re definitely south.

He reaches a hand around the driver’s seat and touches Dean’s shoulder. “Where are we, De?” he asks, his voice thick with sleep. Dean glances at him in the rearview mirror.

“Somewhere in Mississippi,” Dean says. “Hey, hand me a Faygo?”

Sam reaches into the cooler on the floor behind Dean’s seat and pulls out a wet can of cherry cola. The ice melted hours ago, but it’s still decently cold. Dean hums in thanks, pressing a knee up to keep the steering wheel steady as he cracks it open and takes a swig. 

“It’s hot,” Sam complains, through a yawn, adjusting his shirt, which is soaked in sweat.

“Yeah, get used to it. I think we’re gonna be here a while.”

Sam nods. Nothing like spending the hottest months of the year in the deep south. He rests his chin on the ledge of the open window, lets the warm air rush against his face. The sky is so dark here, in the middle of nowhere, a great hollow expanse, stars just shiny streaks against the inky black as they fly by under them.

“How much longer?” he asks.

Dean shrugs. “Couple hours? Go back to sleep, Sammy.”

Sam nods again, and stretches back out across the seat, this time on his belly, his feet wedged up tight against the opposite door. He presses his cheek into the seat and breathes in the musty leather, the sound of Dean humming along to Zeppelin IV, Dad’s light snores, and the rumble of the engine lulling him back to sleep.

**

He wakes slow, foggy, to the click of the tape deck, and for a second he can’t remember, doesn’t know—the sound of Dean humming along to low Zeppelin guitar riffs, the rumble of the Impala’s engine, the warm of the leather through his t-shirt—he’s eleven years old again, stretched across the backseat, sleepy and warm and safe.

He blinks a few times and squints out the window, up at the sky—so dark and clear that they must be in the middle of fucking nowhere. Somewhere between Kansas and Montana. He clears his throat, drags a hand along the top edge of the door panel as he straightens up.

“Where are we?”

Dean glances over. “Good ole Wyoming. Mind if we stop? I gotta take a piss. And I could use a couple hours of sleep.”

“Yeah.”

The crunch of gravel under the wheels and the car rumbles to a stop. Sam gets out for a stretch while Dean goes around the back of the car to the tree line.

Sam yawns, working the kinks out of his neck and shoulders, before he opens the back door with a creak and crawls into the backseat, stretches out the best he can on his back. There was a time when he could more comfortably fit back here, but it’s still warm and comforting, feels like home.

He looks up, out the open window, at the slice of black sky he can see, and a billion tiny pinpricks of light reflect back at him, winking, practically dancing. It’s balmy and warm even though it’s well past midnight, and he takes solace in the sound of cicadas echoing through the trees outside, the faint tick of the engine, and Dean’s music still drifting low out of the front speakers.

There’s a faint sound of a zip and then Dean pokes his head in the window.

“Beer?” Dean asks.

“Oh. Yeah.” Sam reaches into the cooler next to him and pulls out two dripping cans. The car dips a little as Dean slides into the front, and Sam hands a beer over the back of the seat, wipes his own off against his thigh before cracking it open and taking a swig, almost cool enough to be refreshing.

They drink in silence, both too tired for conversation, but they don’t really need words anyway. Dean changes the tape—Fleetwood Mac—and Sam smiles a little. Dean always put this on for him when he was a kid, to try to get him to fall asleep. Sam sets his half-finished beer on the floor and scoots down in the seat a little bit, arms crossed over his chest and knees wedged up tight against the door.

“Night, Sammy.”

Sam breathes in the scent of the car, of the warm air through the open windows, and the sound of Dean’s breathing, and he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

“Night, Dean.”

 _We’ll be the passenger_  
_We’ll ride through the city tonight_  
_See the city’s ripped insides_  
_We’ll see the bright and hollow sky_  
_We’ll see the stars that shine so bright_  
_The sky was made for us tonight_


End file.
